Callouses
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: When the callouses start to peel, he's in a hotel in Brussels. Well, not quite hotel. Hotels are clean, relatively safe things for the French on their August escape, even the student backpackers' no-frills bunk as they make their obligatory trek across Europe. This is a mere building. And parts of it are barely standing. Prompt: PTSD Sherlock's injured and can't play his violin
1. Brussels

When the callouses start to peel, he's in a hotel in Brussels. Well, not quite hotel. Hotels are clean, relatively safe things for the French on their August escape, the politician's respite from a tense day of negotiations at the EU or NATO... even the student backpackers' no-frills bunk as they make their obligatory trek across Europe- a questionable bathroom down the hall with the shower that you really should wear flip-flops while using- could be called a hotel. Not this. This is a mere building. No more than a structure. And parts of it seem as if they are barely standing. The atmosphere doesn't matter. He's here to _listen_.

His mind is occupied with learning Dutch, but that doesn't mean he doesn't notice. He grudgingly resents Mycroft's natural talent for languages and diplomacy, and replaces the envy with cynicism. He thinks of how some people were simply created to serve. A natural-born bureaucrat. No matter how high-ranking, that's all he is. A servant. He tries to take some comfort in the fact that he's not chained to a desk, despising legwork, and he will never be told there's no "i" in "team", or asked to help someone find a balloon with their name on it amongst the hundreds shoved into a glass-walled room in a conference center. (Now that's a proper hotel. It has things like a heater.) No matter how indispensable he is to New Scotland Yard, he is no teammate. But, back to the callouses. They are a small thing, but _of course_ he notices. Even though he is far more likely to notice his surroundings than his own body.


	2. Tibet

The accommodations are better in Tibet. This is a yurt on a mountainside. It is simple, and it is clean, and no one is around for miles. Hopefully.

It is early spring and it has been a fairly warm one so far. There is still snow on the ground though, so even with the sun warming his shoulders, come nightfall it will be freezing. He has a blanket shoved into a pack and there is a pelt in the lodging which is meant to serve as a bed, but it is put to better use wrapped around his body. As the sun goes down, the temperature drops rapidly until he's huddling with his knees to his chest against the cold. He dozes lightly through the night, too concerned about the temperature and the possibility of having been followed. When the sun is up, he sleeps for longer stretches of time.

His fingers are stiff and he rolls them in sequence, making a fan-like motion. His head is as clear as is possible at high altitude with minimal supplies and on the run, but he manages to take time to contemplate his next move, because he knows without that he is lost. This is the only time he misses things. When he has to stop and think. There is no time to miss things when he is in motion.

He's stopped missing the obvious things long ago... things like sitting in his chair in front of a warm fire, or relaxing in hot bath, or John. Maybe even a warm fire and John. Or even, sometimes, (he is just starting to admit to himself) a hot bath and John. Pointless to think about things like that. What he misses now are the unexpected, small things that sneak up on you. That you don't know to guard yourself against. The roundabout traffic. The rain. The arguments over who will hold the Ashes. The smell of the steps leading to the Underground. Who could prepare for that?

It was a bit misleading when he had said he played his violin to help him think. It would be more accurate to say it helped him not think. It cleared his mind. The music lived in his fingers and hands and arms and he could play the most beautiful melodies when he picked up the violin and didn't think. He wants to clear out the invading thoughts, needs to... and before he is even aware of it the fingers of his left hand are no longer flexing, but pushing against his palm. Straightforward melodies with few changes in hand position. The songs of his childhood. His fingers play the Telemann Concerto in G. Allegro. His favourite, because he liked the way the bow pivoted in his hands from string to string. A variety of notes with minimal movement. When he reaches the arpeggios, his right hand joins in involuntarily. The notes swirl around his head and chase out the longing for all the things he can't have.

He will head northwest in the morning. With luck, he'll catch a train across Kazahkstan and be in Serbia before the end of the week. If he thinks about whether the route would take him through Afghanistan, it fades away before he reaches the Presto.


	3. Serbia

Serbia is hell. Instead of being chained to a desk, he is chained to a wall. Opposite walls, in fact... his shoulder blades under constant pressure, the pull of the chains the only thing keeping him upright. He would have cracked quite some time ago if he wasn't already used to not sleeping, not eating, for days on end. When Mycroft cuts his journey short, he is grateful to have a reason to go home. There are scars on his back, to be sure, but they are largely cosmetic. The damage to his shoulder socket- less visible, more painful. No matter. It will heal. He doesn't even bother to stifle the noise when he leans up from a supine position to speak with Mycroft after his shave. The bastard somehow knew everything he'd lived through, right down to the nearly lost left pinky toe. No point in trying not to grunt. Time to look presentable. As if the past two years hadn't taken a heavy toll. As if he were to turn to John and confess he had been merely hiding in a luxury hotel, playing possum. 'Now where were we, John? Oh, yes. About me being human... you caught that did you? The most human human being? Yes. Well.'

He had written a song on the return flight. A wordless ballad of Sherlock and John. A simple waltz, without a strong 3/4 beat, but a waltz nonetheless, with a melody that slid back, even as it kept moving forward, until it started surging upwards with a glissando and took off, bound for the sky. He feels his wrist shift. He longs to play it. He'll meet John at The Landmark, and finish the piece on an actual violin, not just fingers moving through the air. Real. Solid. At home.


	4. Home

He doesn't want to read John... he just wants to surprise him and to talk for Ihours/I. He has tales to tell that are near bursting out of him. How he survived the jump off the roof. How he dodged an attacker in Switzerland and sent him careening into a waterfall. How he finally found the last piece of the puzzle in Serbia ( that was what he would choose to recount from the experience, no need to mention the rest). How the thought of coming home had propelled him forward.

John is on a date. Some things never change. Seems a tad expensive for his usual outing though, but... well. Unimportant. Sherlock has a reunion to plan. This will be fun.

Ten minutes later, as he hits the restaurant floor, his thoughts are of Mary.

Mary. He refuses to look for fault in her. She is, after all, John's choice. He only scans the surface, in an effort not to tear her apart. Sentiment clouds judgment. He will wish them well, and take what is offered. John is not Sherlock's, but Sherlock is still John's.

Sherlock heads home. He looks at his violin. Stares at it. It stares back at him. His shoulder screams when he finally places it into position, and he immediately drops it to his lap and strums it instead. Too soon. His fingers are stiff and clumsy. They fumble over each other as he plays what he remembers of the waltz. It's no longer theirs, though- Sherlock and John's. He plays the crescendo and the quality of sound is as broken and miserable as the song itself, transformed during his time away.

Out of nowhere, he recalls some sort of family get-together long ago- one that necessitated being outdoors for some reason- and he had been occupying himself with whittling sticks. He doesn't remember why. To pass the time? The knife had slipped and he had cut off the very tip of his finger. He wrapped it tight in his shirt in preparation for the bleeding, but it didn't come. Gingerly, he removed the cloth to find that it was a bit of solidified callous he had cleanly removed.

Now his fingers have gone soft and are far too vulnerable. He needs to rebuild that layer of protection. Pain shoots through them as he presses the strings. It hurts to hold the violin properly and it hurts to press his hand to the fingerboard, and it hurts to just be.

He wants to fling the instrument which had abandoned him across room in a fit of pique, but of course he doesn't. It was, however, a pleasing fleeting thought. He puts it gently back into its case and collapses on the sofa. He needed time, that was all. Just time to heal. Time to build them back up. He could do it, in time for the wedding, if he worked on it.


	5. The Waltz

Best. Man.  
It would be better this way. Truly. John wouldn't have been able to put up with Sherlock in the long run, and it would only have made things worse for him after John left. Now, Sherlock could give him a good send-off and he'd be none the wiser. Sherlock would make sure everything was perfect. Extraordinary. And then he would simply go back to his previous life. It had been interesting before he met John. Rewarding. He hadn't felt lonely.

He would find the very best florist, the most exceptional caterer. It would be flawless. And he'd keep David away from Mary (no need for surprises there). He'd do it right. Right down to the napkins. If it couldn't be Sherlock forever at John's side, at least this would be a final gift, of sorts. 'I give him to you, Mary. Take care of him, please.'

The waltz would be a part of the gift as well. One last time to play it and he'd leave the sheet music on the stand, and delete.

John had laughed when Sherlock said he had written a waltz for the ceremony. Said he had two left feet and couldn't manage something so refined, but Sherlock had insisted a waltz was far simpler than one might think. John beamed, "From walking with a cane to dancing... only you, Sherlock." And that's how they had ended up there... dancing with each other... after John had intended only to stop for a quick visit at 221B to discuss the precise nature of a guest's milk allergy. Sherlock was so very uncomfortable, until John started to get the hang of it, and smiled and laughed, and then Sherlock succumbed to the joy of the moment. Yes, his shoulders had ached then, too, but he held out, just a bit longer.

After John leaves, he goes back to work on the piece. Able to lift the instrument, but not able to hold it properly, he attempts to adjust the shoulder rest a bit higher to accommodate his neck without having to add vertical movement to his shoulder. The screws are adjusted to their maximum and unable to grip the thread sufficiently. The apparatus wobbles and threatens to collapse and scratch the varnish and the wood itself. He flings it off and heads to the medicine cabinet for some painkillers.

The pain dulled somewhat, he solidly anchors the instrument under his chin and tentatively raises his bowing arm, but the movement across the strings still sends out flashes of pain. His mind is transported back to the moment when the initial blows had subsided to a dull ache, as if the muscles themselves had simply decided that to lose circulation, to no longer feel anything at all, was the best option. The pain came from putting them back to use.

The composition builds, then slides back ever so slightly, only to surge forward again. He winces as he shifts hand position to climb with the notes and retreat. This was their relationship. A few steps forward, a slide back, a few sustained minor notes, then forward again, till the climb upward. The shift forward is when the physical pain meets with the emotional. His fingers can't keep pace with what he needs to express. His eyes well up as he can no longer form a bridge from his mind to his fingers, and then he breaks down completely, realizing that even if he could, it wouldn't matter. No one is able to read it, to see what he is trying to say. The only person that ever came close to truly understanding and accepting him as he was is leaving his life. He brings the melody back down to earth abruptly, letting it tumble to the ground with two clipped notes. Cut short. Enough for today. Enough.

He pushes on anyway. Finishes the piece with a longing melody, repeating, questioning, resigning, and echoing like a voice in an empty room before quietly fading out. He plays it again from the beginning, struggling for composure as if this is a dress rehearsal. He pictures the happy couple dancing in front of him, never noticing the opening and closing of the outer door.


	6. The Stairs

John hears the music as soon as he enters. He recognizes it as a waltz, but with his military background and a stint in marching band, he had anticipated something a bit more regimented, with a hard downbeat. He snickers at the thought of a wedding waltz with all the subtlety of an oom-pah-pah at Oktoberfest. What had he been expecting? But this- it is so opposite of his mental image. He leans against the outer door and simply listens as the notes drift down to him. He has the vague impression that they are seeking him out. Ridiculous.

Glorious. That's the word he puts to it. The sound is so large, grand, for a single violinist. He shifts his notion of Sherlock the unemotional robot to Sherlock the drama queen, and realizes what he just did makes absolutely no sense. He can't be devoid of emotion and have over-the-top displays of it. One of these personas is false. He thinks about which one it is when the music comes to an abrupt halt.

John assumes the music has stopped because Sherlock is now aware of his presence, and he waits for it to start up again, now that Sherlock knows he has an audience. It doesn't. There's a muffled noise he can't quite make out. It sounds like strangled breath, like gasps, and he instinctively checks for a gun he no longer carries. He's been out of the game. No, that wasn't quite the sound either, it sounded more like... and the violin starts again. The music has changed character. It freezes John in place. It's not until it starts over from the beginning that John is released from its grip and he quietly heads upstairs, uncertain as to what he will find.


	7. One Word

Sherlockturns abruptly and notices John before he can announce his presence. "I was... just finishing up," Sherlock says, as he places the violin gently on the sofa.

"Was that our waltz?"

Sherlock looks visibly wounded, though John is completely unaware it is his word choice that is to blame.

"For your wedding," he states, turning back to put the violin securely in its case.

"It's beautiful."

Sherlock offers a shy smile and a nod of thanks.

"Must be difficult."

"Composing? Hardly."

"Being the Best Man."

Sherlock is stunned. How does John know? He's tried so hard to accept this with good grace. To let go of something he was never quite sure he could ever have. It's all out there on the table. He almost laughs at how good it feels to not hide it anymore. John continues.

"If I had to stand up and give a speech in front of a hundred plus people, I'd be a wreck. Not to mention playing an instrument in front of them."

Sherlock's face shifts from relief and amazement back to cold indifference. Not what John meant at all- of course not.

"What?" John's brow furrows, then raises in anxiety. "That wasn't what you thought I was going to say. What did you think I was going to say?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. "Hardly matters, John."

"Course it matters. You. Matter."

Sherlock is about to roll his eyes in utter disdain- over how little he really does matter- but John plops down on the sofa and makes a grand flourish indicating Sherlock should do the same. Sherlock scoffs, but sits at the opposite end.

"I'm a bundle of loose nerves right now. This whole wedding. Came up fast. And I'm sorry if I have been a bit distracted by it all. The planning. The decisions. Harry said she'd come...haven't seen her in years. And..." John's eyes shift nervously and his voice is as stiff as his bearing, "And some other people who are very important to me that I haven't seen in quite a long time. It's a bit distracting. If I haven't been there for you as much as I should... well...I'd imagine coming back from the dead is a bit of an adjustment, so if you need an ear, I'm here."

"It's fine. It was Mycroft's plan and he is the one responsible for cleaning up the mess. Apparently there is a lot of paperwork involved in a resurrection."

"Was probably much easier for Mark Twain."

"Hmm?"

"Oh, just someone else people thought was dead. Not important."

"Yes. Not important. What did you want, John?"

"What did I want?"

"Yes. Milk problem is resolved. You are a barely adequate dancer, but I'm sure even you could struggle through the waltz by this point. Why are you here?" Sherlock rises from the sofa and turns quickly away with a flourish. He is fully dressed, but he somehow still manages to convey the petulant swish of his dressing gown.

John's eyes widen, and his lips twitch. "Sometimes... sometimes I'm walking home from work and I wind up here. My feet just seem to know the way. I've been here before. When you were...gone... I would just find myself here. And lately, with my mind a mess of confusion, I still sometimes do. I was distracted, and, I looked up and here I was again. So I, decided to stop by, and I heard the music, and.."

Sherlock turns quickly back to face John. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply you weren't welcome. You are always welcome here John... always. I just wasn't thinking you would have the time or the inclination."

"I suppose I have been avoiding you, Sherlock."

"And I, you."

A long silence hangs between them before a puzzled-looking John finally, hesitantly, asks why.

Sherlock is all too quick to answer. "Because sometimes you take yourself out of someone's life first, so you won't see the final proof that they don't want you in it."

John rests his hands on his forehead and looks down at the floor. He speaks very slowly. "I did want you in it. I wanted you in my life so much. And when you were gone, I wanted you in it even more. Not to offend you... but, I wanted you in my life in ways I never thought I would."

"That would... offend me?"

"Oh. Right. Not that there's anything wrong with feeling those things, right? I'm used to being the one saying things like that. Telling Harry it was fine... that she wouldn't lose me, too." John smirks. Then concern momentarily clouds his features. "Anyway, it was just a past attraction, no big deal. No, no, it was a past confusion. I found Mary, and she turned my life around."

"So, you weren't. Attracted to me. Just confused?" Sherlock's voice is carefully neutral, until he reaches the last word, which spills over the edges with contempt.

"I don't know why I'm telling you this. No one wants to hear that his friend had romantic feelings for him. Sorry."

"Well, when said friend is getting married in a few days time, probably not, and to hear it expressed in past tense when one is thinking identical concepts in present tense is a bit disconcerting as well."

It takes a moment for John to fully process what Sherlock is saying, and he continues on before John's brain can quite catch up. "I would have loved to have heard it before now. I would have had the opportunity to freely return the sentiment, and I'm reasonably confident it would have gone over much better." John looks up at Sherlock in shock. "I can't say I loved you the day I met you, John. I didn't know enough about what that would feel like to have had the proper terminology for it. That part took more time. But, once I had reconciled language with emotion, I knew I did. Love you."

John was slow to meet his eyes. "I do love you, Sherlock. Not loved. Love. But I, love her, and I can't let her go. I can't not marry her." The next sentence is delivered with a fierce determination, as if he is trying to convince himself of its veracity. "I am marrying her."

Sherlock says nothing. John continues. "I... I need time to figure this one out. I don't know if I can do this. I'll meet you later. We'll talk this through." John gets up and heads toward the door. "I can't just cancel the wedding. I can't do this in front of everyone ... I've... I've got to go think. But I don't know if I can do this. God, one word, Sherlock, one word and I would have waited a lifetime."

"One word, spoken by Moriarty, and the snipers would have been called off forever and you would have been safe. He confirmed that little fact for me before shooting himself in the head." Sherlock's face takes on a harder edge and his voice rises and speeds up to near deduction pace. "Plans don't always work out the way we anticipate. And forgive me for not dropping a postcard off to you from the steppes in the dead of winter saying "Wish I wasn't here" or perhaps once I was in a major city I could have located a postal box, but then again it would have required my hands not being tied to a chair behind my back to address it, or when I was in the trunk of a car and didn't have enough of a light source to write legibly, but it's just as well I didn't get the word out, because if you lied about me being dead with the same degree of skill you lied about Irene being alive it would have all been for naught. I almost died four times anyway, so it proved to be very nearly accurate. I'm not as good a shot as you are, after all, plus I was barely able to squeeze the bloody trigger. And I think you should go. Go on!"

John walks solemnly to the door, glances back at Sherlock who has taken his violin out of its case only to find that flinging it up to his chin has hurt his shoulder far more than he had expected it to, and he lets out a yell of pain and frustration  
before dropping it on the sofa in disgust and grabbing at the muscle to ease it. He knows John will see it. He doesn't care. John will leave any moment now and he will be alone.


	8. StayGo

John doesn't leave.

He walks back to the sofa and places his hand on the back edge. He looks at Sherlock.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You don't want to know. You have a life to live. Go live it."

"Once you let me know you were aliveigured you'd been running around London like some sort of James Bond with Mycroft as your Q, enjoying being clever. 'No one is as free as the dead', that sort of thing."

"I know."

"And I thought you didn't want some o..." John stops then starts again, and takes a few steps back from the sofa "...didn't want me tagging along and slowing you down so you left me here. Abandoned me."

"I... I didn't know that, John."

"Do you know how I feel now? If I could have gotten you out of even one of those situations, it would all have been worth it. You denied me the opportunity. And it hurts. A lot."

"I did what I needed to do. I shouldn't feel bad. They were... not nice men." He turns his attention to the magazines strewn about on the end table and straightens them, hoping he has given John just enough of a verbal hint to read the situation correctly. He is entirely too vulnerable right now to begin to discuss all he's seen. All he's had to do. He glares at his own hand as he stacks one on top of the other and matches up the edges, perhaps a bit too obsessively. He rubs his shoulder once more, angry at it for giving him away. John cannot be his confidante.

"Sherlock...you ...yeah. I'm sure you did whatever needed to be done. I hope Mycroft fulfilled his only positive purpose as an overprotective git and had you thoroughly looked over and cared for?"

"Yes, yes, nothing that severe."

"Really." John scans Sherlock's body, and his struggle to keep a professional eye is all too apparent. Mycroft would have provided the very best in medical care, if Sherlock had accepted the offer. It looks as if he has, but John still seems uncertain. He wants to touch, to soothe, to repair the damage, the physical and the psychological...both personally and professionally. Sherlock won't let him. He forces his hands into the pockets of his cardigan. He has a better chance at building a time machine and preventing it all from ever happening in the first place.

"Honest. They weren't out to kill me. Just, to keep me away from whoever was running the show. Lots of tying up, not near as much beating with a pipe." Sherlock smiles. John frowns.

"Please tell me one of those show runners is still alive, so I can have the honor of killing him myself."

Sherlock closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly.

There is a fury in John's eyes that makes Sherlock think his next words are going to be expressing bitter disappointment, but instead he says "Fuck" in barely over a whisper and drops onto the sofa, staring off. It takes a while before he says, even more quietly, "You did it for me."

"I would do anything for you, John."

John is drawn to Sherlock like a magnet, and Sherlock finds himself leaning toward the hand that is reaching for him, heading toward the side of his face, when John suddenly turns and pulls away, as if he too is trying to shake off physical pain. "I... need to think about this."

"No you don't. You made your decision. What I went through back then is irrelevant to the current situation. You said you love her. You want to marry her...you will marry her, was the statement."

"That was before I..."

"Irrelevant, John! We both know what will happen here. And you need to go."

John stares at Sherlock, shaking his head before he leaves.

As soon as the door closes, Sherlock collapses face first onto the sofa, muffling his face so John won't hear as he loses his composure entirely in tears he is no longer able to hold back.


	9. Battle Dress

Chapter Text

Battle dress.  
It still lingers in the back of his brain... whether he has any sort of chance of getting John back. Maybe if he hadn't been quite so intimidating to David? He pushes the thought away, waits for Mary and John to step onto the dance floor, and begins to play. Then Sherlock sees it, just as he shifts to third position. The reason Mary will never lose John. There is another person to consider, and he already knows John's loyalty is above reproach- he's seen it in action. And even if he could try for an earlier claim, there is one thing which trumps that.

John will be an exceptional father.

He breaks the news. It's over. It has to be.

Time to dance. Surely there'll be someone to turn to. Janine. No, she's with her man-for-the-night now. Molly will still be with Tom of course, even after a rather vicious thigh stabbing. So. Right. That's all you have, Sherlock. The short list of people who will tolerate you for the evening, all booked solid. Time to go home. He turns up his collar against a nonexistent chill and is glad to slip away.

The painkillers had done their job sufficiently enough to allow him to play. Perhaps he could use a little more? He is still in pain, after all. Back at Baker Street, he stretches his long, white hand up for the bottle.


End file.
